The Arcanist is sequestered away in her private estate's garden, leafing through documents, and old, dusty tomes. The studium seems to be rarely visited, bookshelves covered in a thin layer of dust, cobwebs strewn about the stones, and a damp, molding scent of leaf-rot. A long, tapping creak, and the faint sound of foot-falls catches her attention. “Aran'arcana...” The Arcanist murmurs in the Shalassian elf-tongue, not keen of the unseen presence, “who you are? Speak plainly, pet.”